See The Light
by ArticulateZ
Summary: Nathan finds common ground with an overbearing mother. Her intentions, however, are not as decent as his own, and their daughters must struggle to cast off the influence of their childhood oppressors. Rating subject to change.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: I seem to have an obsession with crossovers these days. Tangled is a delightful, humorous musical about an overprotective guardian over an innocent and naive girl who escapes and is manipulated by the first man she encounters. The same can be said for Repo, and the rest of the parallels followed naturally! Both of these movies are just SUPER DUPER AWESOME. Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys. Thank you for taking the time to read, feel free to rate, leave constructive criticism, etc etc.**

**The rating may change.**

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><p>"Physically, there seems to be nothing wrong with her," the doctor began, removing his gloves with practiced ease. Antibacterial foam creased between his fingers and he rubbed vigorously. The mother didn't wait for him to continue; she perked up at the start of the prognosis.<p>

"Really! That's wonderful. Thank you _so_ much, it is just awful to be stuck with a sick child." She pursed her lips in a syrupy smirk, seeming to show no concern for the child in question, on the other side of the door.

Nathan rubbed his forehead and tried to understand through the mother's eyes. "Your daughter had a seizure. Have you any concern for that?"

"Why, of course! - I would be, if there were anything to be concerned about." She tossed her crown of hair and laughed. "Flower was overexcited. I'd say that's nothing to fret over."

The doctor could only stare, incredulous and aghast. "Nothing to-?" He stopped himself.

"The scans did turn out fine, didn't they?" she checked.

"Yes, yes. Fainting spells happen to children, especially those who live in towers."

Showing her satisfaction with a ruby-lipped smile, the mother securely fastened her shawl and made to go back into the room where a little girl sat on the examination table, grinning ear to ear and kicking her feet. Nathan put a hand on her shoulder; the other hand offered a square of paper. "Here's my card, with my work number. Call me if anything should happen."

She took the card and examined it, put it in her purse. "My, that's an original one. You big lug, I know _I'm_ the one you want in a paper gown with my backside bared!" She chuckled and added, "Oh, I'm only teasing. Thank you again."

The door closing behind her effectively dismissed him more than a proper goodbye would have.

Dr. Wallace managed to remove the woman from his thoughts and proceeded through the rest of the week without incident. Friday, not two minutes after arriving home from work, he received an urgent call on his personal communicator.

"Doctor? Hello, it's Eleanor Gothel—,"

"Where did you get this number?" he cut her off. "Do you have any idea what a serious breach of—"

"Protocols, boundaries, why yes," she said, sounding breathless. "And more will be breached before the night is dead. No doubt you remember Flower, Doctor, and this is an urgent matter. Please, will you come?"

He thought it over, torn between his duties at home, to manage his own affairs, as he had a right to, and his moral obligation as an honest doctor. Besides, he had to admit that curiosity played a role. He could scrub up later. Having made his decision, his long pause was prompted into change by her exasperated sigh, and she said "Well?"

"I'll be right over."

It would be a simple matter to go quickly through his files and find her address. He went to his computer and did so, surprised to see that she owned her house outright. She owned everything, no debts, and her credit was perfect. Astounding. But he would have to investigate later, and it surprised him that he wanted to. This family had piqued his interest. Professional interest, naturally. He left his home as quietly as he'd arrived, and the drive wasn't terrible. It was late, after all, and traffic had expired.

The Gothel home was vertical, a penthouse of sorts, privately owned and on the outskirts of the city, close to one of the original graveyards. Bemused at the thistles that grew equally with the wildflowers, Nathan kicked aside a bramble that had fallen across his path to the door. He rang. Using the speaker beside the door, Gothel sang out "It's open!" and he found it was. The entry was bare: stone floors, an elevator against the far wall. He went in and took it to the fifth floor. The doors, oddly enough, were not clear, but reflective metal, allowing him no sight of the levels between. What he was delivered into was a mildly anachronistic world, sparkling clean, the wood floors reflective, the clutter somehow organized. He wondered if they had a maid—but the first floor had been dusty, and the yard was overgrown.

Gothel came from a closed room, heart to her chest. She was in a dressing gown, tied tightly under her bust.

"It was so good of you to come," she said, and extended an arm to the open door. "Please, please see to her. I don't know what to do."

Distractedly, Nathan moved by her into the bedroom. The little girl's bedroom, painted lavender, painted many things, with abstract patterns, vines, and self-portraits in all the colors of the rainbow. The lights were on, and on the canopied bed, Flower laid prostrate under the covers, her limbs seized. The position was stiff and awkward, although her expression was one of utmost tranquility. Like dead roadkill. He sat on the bed and examined her. She was either asleep, or a damn good fake.

"I found her like this. Ridiculous, don't you think," Gothel said, having followed him in, and he hoped she was masking her anxiety with a sarcastically bent humor. She put a hand on his shoulder.

"Well, let's try waking her," he said, touching the child's forehead. It was overly warm. "Feverish." Which explained the flush on her cheeks, an unnatural dappling of brightest red on her pink complexion. At his touch, and perhaps at the sound of familiar voices, the girl's body relaxed, and she curled up on her side, hugging at a pillow.

"No, no, let her be," the mother said hastily. "Will she be all right?"

He looked at her strangely. "Yes, she seems to be in no immediate danger." Gothel, in an unexpectedly tender gesture, reached out and petted the girl's long, gold hair. "Now, why don't we let her rest, and you can tell me the real reason you asked me here."

Her smile was sly. She went out of the room and beckoned to him. He turned off the bedroom light just before closing the door.

Gothel served tea and sandwiches. Nathan, who'd neglected to eat lunch that day and hadn't been home long enough for dinner, was grateful. They sat across from each other in wrought iron chairs, the curious doctor and the smug and satisfied mother with a secret in her smirk. She brought her hands together and leaned forward, about to divulge that secret. As she did, the chasm of open skin left by the neckline of her gown proved interesting: generous cleavage, snow white skin, a hint of a silky camisole.

"My Flower is no ordinary child," she told him. "She's... unique."

"Yes, all children are," he said, smiling.

"Oh-ho, but she is in particular!"

At that moment, a tinny voice said sleepily, "Mama?"

Flower hovered in the doorway, dragging her blanket and her long hair behind her. Long-limbed for her age, still she looked so fragile, as fevered children are wont to. Her white nightgown more than touched the floor and made her blushing face look even redder, even brighter. Gothel smiled warmly and beckoned the girl forward. She was somewhat shy and needed more encouragement from her mother to approach.

"You remember Dr. Wallace," Gothel prompted her.

"Yes, Mama," Flower said shyly.

Nathan tried to be kind. It was, however, quite late, and nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It was difficult not to lose patience. Gothel ushered the girl onto her lap.

"May I show him your gift?" she asked. The girl hesitated. "He won't harm you."

"I don't want to hurt," Flower murmured, both curling closer to Gothel's body and moving away from her hands.

"It will only hurt a moment, and then we'll both feel lovely, won't we." She kissed the girl's hair. "Fetch my sewing kit. There's a good girl."

Grabbing a sandwich from the tray and stuffing it in her mouth, the girl went off to hop up on a counter, reaching into a cupboard. She came back with a basket, and sat back on Gothel's lap. Long, white fingers took out a thread ripper that looked closer to a medical scalpel.

"Wait, what on earth are you doing?" Nathan asked, starting from his seat.

Gothel smiled and told him to sit down. "Trust me. Watch."

Against all his professional instincts, he gave in to his wondering and took a seat, watching as she took the girl's hand. She stabbed it quickly, without a trace of viciousness or venom. Mere efficiency was in the heart of the action. Blood sprang up from the tear, and tears sprang up in the girl's eyes. She hastily buried her face in her mother's arms, the hands stroking her hair. Nathan was well and truly horrified. The woman gave no explanation, and instead began to sing.

"Flower, gleam and glow..."

He thought his eyes were malfunctioning. His glasses could not have been that fogged from the hot tea. Had she drugged him?

The hair, the absurdly long blonde hair that Flower dragged everywhere—it glowed like a nightlight, a bright light! Flower went limp and fell asleep smiling. Gothel wrapped a lengthy lock around both their hands, and he saw that the cut healed, and that Gothel... Gothel appeared refreshed, rejuvenated. She gave a great sigh, smiling as well.

After they'd returned Flower to her bedroom, and Nathan had a glass of water to brew over, he managed to say "How?"

"When she was in the womb, she took the effects of a special flower ingested by her mother. That flower once grew in this graveyard, a long time ago. Now, it is barren," she sadly said. "Oh, there are flowers, to be sure. None special. Ordinary weeds that bloom briefly, wither, die."

"Yes, that's life. Her hair... it healed her hand," he said, amazed.

"That is her gift. She's my dearest. I'd never trade her, not for all the gold in the world," she said, and it occurred to Nathan that such a 'talent' would be very valuable. If it fell into the wrong hands...

Well, he wouldn't say a word.

"I don't understand. But I will keep this confidence. Why did you wish to share this with me?" he asked.

"I want you to study it, of course. Doctor, if you can extract the flower's nature from her hair, think of what _good_ I could do with it!"

"Very well. With a sample of it, I'm sure—,"

"NO! No, you can't cut it!" she said in genuine alarm and fear. "If you cut it, it won't work. You must think I'm out of my mind."

"Would have thought so, before I saw a girl's hair light up like the fourth of July," he said wryly. "Oh, God, what am I thinking? This is ridiculous. You expect me to help you because she's a little lightning bug. That does not excuse that you hurt your child in my presence!"

When she chuckled and smirked in response, his anger unexpectedly flared; one hand shot out and took her arm in a death grip.

"You won't report me," she purred.

In a growl, he pressed "Why is that, you impertinent harpy?"

"You're..." She used her uncaught fingers to pry his vise grip from her skin. The marks were red, and then they faded. "Intrigued. A man of science who finds beauty in her blood. You'll do it because you can see the potential, too. To distill a miracle draught, imagine! The death of old age. The death of plagues and decay!"

"There must be another way," he said, made weak by her glorious vision. It was impossible to deny how her ambition sparked his. For Nathan, as well, there was the possibility of remedying past mistakes. His sins might never be forgiven, but if he changed the world, he could feel decent again.

"No. It is activated by her pain. At least, that's been what I've found to be true." Her crimson talons stroked his hand. He removed it with a disgusted scowl. "Ignore your conscience. You'll find no use for it with me. Besides, you're fond of pain, aren't you."

"I find no pleasure in the violence inflicted on another person," he lied.

"Of course not, how silly. In moving forward, we must be calculating and careful. She is my treasure, and I won't let any harm come to her. At the hospital, your skill is remarkable. The last true professional, completely removed from the melodrama of families. Blah blah blah, it gets _very_ annoying. I don't know _how_ you put up with it!"

He couldn't help but smirk. She did have a point.

"That's why I chose you," she told him matter-of-factly.

"Chose me? Nonsense!" he bristled, putting on his coat, picking and plucking at the keys in his pocket. They jingled as pleasant bells.

"Give me some credit, Doctor. To put my daughter's health in another's hands, why wouldn't I research the candidates?"

She forced him, continuously, to weigh himself and rejudge his opinions, mainly those regarding her. Nathan was not used to being questioned. It was irritating.

"Stay out of my files," he warned her.

"Don't worry. No pains were taken to unearth your secrets. Now, can I count on you to help me?" He did not answer right after, still warily contemplating this proposal that was certainly in an ethical gray area. "If it's any consolation to your soul, her condition seems to tie in with her seizures."

She'd lied to him. "Seizures. Then it's happened before?"

She nodded grimly. "Flower had one before she fell ill this evening. Yes."

Nothing left to do. "Bring her to my home tomorrow night. I'll send you the address. She should be fine until then; get some water in her, and call me if something goes wrong. You have my card."

"I do. Goodnight."

The night made the exterior of the premises foreboding, as something out of a fairy tale would. It rose up, towered ominously, few windows and a steep roof. The thistles caught at his pant legs when he walked slightly off the path to reach his car. Nathan struggled with the radio; this far in the distance, all he managed to finagle was static and the occasional crackle of a song or commercial. Bright headlights illuminated the empty and lonely road.

In the cemetary behind Gothel's tower, a tall figure skulked and crept. He picked through the grassy plots, checking for a non-decomposed corpse; alas, they had become mulch. Human compost, of no use to him. The teenager brushed his greasy hair off his face, paying no mind to the fresh earth he'd inadvertently painted on his forehead. "This was a shit tip-off," he grumbled, hefting a bag and prepping for his flight. A car, pulling away from the property, briefly flashed its light right at him. The car slammed to a stop in its reverse. The teenager momentarily froze and felt like a rabbit, twitchy and fast. He squinted but could not make out the driver's face past the blinding lights.

He dropped to the ground in the overgrown grass and held his breath.

"Strange. I thought I saw something," Nathan said. He chalked it up to being tired and overworked, and continued to back out, turn around, begin the drive home. The teenager heaved a sigh of relief. That stroke of luck inflamed his ego, and he laughed aloud as he ran back where he'd come from.

* * *

><p>Gothel was late. Nathan found himself waiting by the door, impatiently. Here he was, sacrificing his free time for her mysterious little scheme, and she didn't even have the decency to arrive on time. He'd sent her his address and she'd said six o'clock. Sharp. He checked the time. Oh. It was a quarter to six. How silly. The gate rang out. Hastily, he strode out and let the visitors in the gate and into his home. It occurred to him that no one besides himself had crossed that threshold in years.<p>

"Were you waiting by the door?" Flower asked curiously. She tugged on his shirt. "This is a lady's shirt! It has flowers on it."

"Pet, we mustn't be rude," Gothel shushed her, mortified. She even blushed. "Doctor, so good of you to even _consider_ my offer! How can I ever repay you?"

"My 'office,' if you can call it that, is just this way," he said, indicating the open passage. He'd taken care to stow away any items that would not be fit for company. That did nothing to assuage his anxiety at allowing strangers to poke about in his home. Flower skipped ahead, her hair trailing behind her. Gothel, on the other hand, stood and looked at the portrait hanging over the tunnel.

"She's very beautiful, Dr. Wallace. Almost as pretty as me!" she declared, and chortled. "I'm just kidding. Who is she, dear?"

He sighed. "My wife. She... passed."

Gothel sucked on her lips and evidently came to some conclusion. "Death haunts us all. The world finds beauty and crushes it."

It might have been a moment had Flower not peeked her head around the corner. She was close to hopping with excitement. "Mother, there's a big white table with a giant paper towel on it!" Gothel shrugged at Nathan and followed the little girl down the passageway to Nathan Wallace's den.

She climbed up on the table all by herself, and with a smile let Nathan examine her. He asked how she was feeling, asked if she could sing a special song for him. Mommy's song. Wide-eyed, she went ahead and sang a few more lines of the song than he'd heard before. Absolutely no change. There was nary a sparkle in that abundant head of hair. Her mother's smirk smacked of an "I told you so." He ignored this and reached for a needle.

"If you'll be a good girl and sit very calm and quiet, I'll give you some candy," he said with a friendly gesture to the jar of lollipops he'd set up on the counter. A thought occurred to him; he turned to Gothel, questioning. "That is, if she can have sugar." She nodded. "Good."

Flower turned up her arm and flicked it, sending the sleeve flying back. The forearm was exposed. Expertly, he pushed the needle into the vein. A hand squeezed his shoulder as her blood filled the body of the syringe.

"You were very brave," he complimented her, sticking a band-aid over the red dot. Her mother handed her a blue sucker and told her to run along, giving her a playful swat on the butt. Flower picked up an armful of her hair mid-stride. Really, the girl made him think of a galloping pony.

He became transfixed. In the microscope, his eye fixed on the slide smeared with red and magnified until it became unrecognizable as blood. "Extraordinary. Extraordinary," he murmured, fixing the focus. "Eleanor, your daughter has beautiful blood. It reminds me of..." He removed it, and prepared a new slide with a drop of Zydrate. "Maybe it's a relative, whatever that foreign contaminant to her blood happens to be."

Her touch was on his shoulder. She leaned over him, her breasts gently pressing to his back, and asked to look. Swapping the slides, he nudged the base closer to her. She braced her hands on the table and looked down. He was conscious of her body to his back, and her hair on his neck. A haughty woman, and she had reason to be prideful of her appearance and carriage. Nathan was aware of every breath he took, with her peering over his shoulder. At last, she let go of the table, continuing to lean into his back. Her hands caressed his shoulders and neck, then dipped down the collar of his shirt to touch his chest.

"Wait," he said, turning. She was close to his height, but all woman, and sultry as anything he'd ever seen. "What are you doing?"

"Doctor, it's been a long time since I've been with anyone. Indulge my fancy and I'll see you get your just desserts," she vowed. Swaying to the door, she set the lock. "There. Now we won't be disturbed."

* * *

><p>Ho hum, nothing to do here, either, but at least she wasn't home. She welcomed a change of pace. For a while, she skipped about the hallway, hooting like an owl and chasing the echoes in the curves. Her mom didn't come back to get her, or call for her, and she slumped on the ground, bored. She started to count her hairs and gave up after seventy-four; she couldn't count any higher and skipped several numbers because she couldn't remember how they went. She thumped her head on the wall and said she was bored, she was bored, she was so bored. At home, she had her paints. Here, there was... a tunnel. Dragging her feet dramatically, Flower plodded back to the door to the nice doctor's office and put her ear on it.<p>

He and her mom were having a singing contest, practicing their scales on 'oh's and 'ah's. Flower had them both beat. She tried the door. No good; locked. "Oh well!" she exclaimed, and went off to explore the rest of the house.

He had stairs, she'd noticed when they came in. Big ones. She'd not realized how big, now that she wasn't holding her mother's hand. She stared up and wondered what was at the top. It twisted and turned like a vine. There was only one way to find out, and she tried it, putting one foot after the other, up and up. Upstairs were a bunch of rooms. She heard sounds coming from one, so she went up to it and knocked politely.

"Dad?" came a voice, hoarser than her own. "Is it time?"

"Time for what?" Flower asked. A long silence followed. Flower tilted her head and tried again, knocking hard. "Hello! Talk to me!"

"Go away." The voice was closer now, and then far, and then close, then far; the kid on the other side of the door was either pacing or an adept ventriloquist. "I can't have people from the outside getting me sick."

"I won't get you sick. I just went to the doctor," she explained. "Do you have toys in there?"

"What are you doing here?"

"I _told_ you. My mother took me to the doctor, and that's here!" Flower patiently repeated. She tried the knob, rattled it. "What is it with this house and locked doors?"

"That's not right. Neither of us have guests. It's in the rules," the kid said.

"I'm a little girl."

"I'm a girl, too. Dad says I'll grow."

"Please let me in," Flower begged. She wouldn't have wanted to so bad if the girl would just let her in. But no!

"I can't," she said sullenly. "I'm... locked in. For my safety." Flower was about to say that didn't make any sense when the girl begged her to please go away. "There's toys in my dad's room, down the hall. Go play."

"But I want to play with you!" Flower whined. She'd not noticed the step on the stairs behind her, but the girl on the other side of the door did; she gasped and retreated, her sounds fading until there was a thumb that Flower recognized as a jump onto a bed.

"Why are you talking to a door?" her mother asked, laughing.

Flower pointed at the doorknob, and looked at Dr. Wallace, standing behind her, looking frightened and ruffled. The top two buttons of his shirt weren't done, and his hair stuck up all over the place. "There's a girl in there!" she informed him earnestly. "I talked to her!"

"The doctor doesn't want to hear about your wild imaginings," her mother said, taking her hand. She shook it off.

"It's real! There's a girl in there!"

Coldly: "Flower, enough."

"No, Mama, let's open the door! You'll see!"

"_Flower!_" she snarled, and grabbed her by the hand, jerking her toward the stairs.

Flower screamed, not really in pain, and threw herself on the ground, kicking and thrashing. She shrieked that she had too talked to a girl, she _had_, and the repeated assertions soon devolved into senseless screams. Nathan knelt and tried to calm her; he was smacked in the solar plexus with one of her bare feet for his efforts. Gothel explained that there was no reasoning with children. She picked up the girl and held her tight to keep her from flailing.

"If you don't stop this at once, you will lose daylight privileges for a week," she told her. The girl's sobs became snuffles, and then she was a teary thing, red in the face and limp in her mother's arms. She put her arms around the woman's neck. "And now she's wiping her snotty little nose on my dress. Lovely."

"I'm very sorry. If it's anything I've done..."

"No, no. She's tired. I'll take her home and put her to bed." Eleanor stroked Flower's back in soothing circles, her fingers raking through the hair.

He saw her to the door, and there was – at least, on his part—an awkward pause at the parting. What to say, what to do. He'd never been one to engage in casual activities, and with Gothel's daughter in her arms, it would hardly have been appropriate for him to allude to what they'd been up to. No kiss on the cheek, no offer to buy her dinner. She thanked him, and apologized for her child making a scene.

He'd misjudged her as a mother, thinking her unfeeling. Gothel had a strange sense of humor, but there was care in how she treated the girl. Affectionate touches went easily between them, and when the child was hurt, she went right into her mother's arms for comfort. She obeyed her every word to the letter.

"I'll let you know if I come up with tangible results," he said.

"Do you ever let up on the doctor speak? Oh, I'm just teasing. You know I am. Take care, and goodbye!"

Nathan was sort of dazed in her wake.

She wasn't happy with him. He could tell from the instant he got the door open. A tiny, white creature overwhelmed by the size of her black wig, she huddled on the bed and narrowed her eyes in annoyance.

"Daddy, you said no guests," she said. He went to her, pushed the plastic canopy aside and sat down. "They messed up your hair." She knelt behind him and set about fixing his hair with her fingers.

"Not guests, Shi, patients. One of them is sick, and I was helping her," he said.

"Which one?" she asked. She stopped preening him and set back to admire his handiwork, letting him gaze upon her. Pale and sweet, she'd drawn dark circles around her eyes with black liner. He frowned.

"You know I can't say. Shilo, that's far too much makeup."

"Mag wears more," she said.

"You're not Mag. And she's a grown woman. When you're older, you can wear more." He got a tissue from her nightstand and gave it to her. "Until then..." She wiped it off, which temporarily made it worse. And then she was clean-faced and he hugged her to his side. She nestled closer and let him rub her arm. It wouldn't be out of the ordinary for her to fall asleep this way, before she'd even had her dinner. "You took your medicine, didn't you, precious?"

Behind her back, with slow and careful movements so as not to alert her father that something was wrong, she curled the pills in her palm and slid them under her pillow. "Yes, Dad."


	2. Chapter 2

Nathan, in the years he'd invested becoming a doctor, a surgeon, a master of his craft, had never imagined that he'd find himself singing, albeit quietly, to vials of blood in various altered states, all in an attempt to coax an obvious, visible response. He danced on his toes, begging for evidence of his work at tampering what gift nature had bestowed on Gothel's child to reveal itself. Alas, to no use, and they'd been at this for a month, nearly: working late into the night, researching, with the occasional break. He smiled, so subtly that it was all but imperceptible. Work was dreadful and hard, and the blood and fear was never quite washed clean... so naturally his extracurricular activities involved pain, blood, halting death for some lucky bastards in the future—much like his thankless job.

"Flower..." He laughed at himself. Gothel slithered into his lab with her copied key. It had been done with his permission, the sort of permission granted in a heated moment, when mouths were dropping kisses like milk and honey. Flower followed after, holding up the back of her mother's long, scarlet dress. She let it fall on the floor and went to the doctor, held out her arm for him to prick. "We won't be needing that today," he said, tapping her nose and inwardly elating in her grateful smile.

"Run along, my dear," Gothel told the girl. "The adults need to speak. Don't we, Nathan?"

"Oh. Yes, of course," he agreed, and they sent her out after she gave her mother another affectionate squeeze around her hips.

"Are we any closer?" Cracks in the dry earth, fine wrinkles around her eyes; it brought their age closer together, placed them on even footing when her youthful appearance was undone. He admired the ash grey in her hair. His fingers wove through it and found the nape of her neck.

"Soon." A kiss to her throat made a shiver spiral through her body. "No, not. I'm stumped."

Impatient, she pushed him away and strode to a rack with a dark cloth over it.

"Don't!"

A wicked smirk made her face a twisted jack-o-lantern. In one fluid motion, she ripped it from the helmet on it, the secret, the infamous one. Nathan Wallace was that dreaded night reaper.

"Well, well!" she crowed. "A Repo Man."

Somehow it did not surprise him that she showed no fear. What a strange woman. "Yes," he said warily. The man was, on the contrary, afraid.

"Tell me, darling, what other secrets are you hiding?"

"Some things should not be unearthed," he warned her.

"Oh, Nathan, you sweet, confident, handsome fool. You will tell me." She ripped away the dark cloaks of fabric all around his office that camouflaged his secret life, the uniform, equipment, medical supplies, surgical instruments. Gothel beheld it all, casting her eyes about. "What have we here."

"You judge me?" he tested. "Do you dare?"

"Why would I?" she drawled. "You know just as well that I'm not a saint. And I know what you see when you look at me."

Her idle hands picked up a scalpel and began to play, seemingly heedless of the pain that could be delivered. "Your wife. Ah, yes, she was _so_ beautiful!" The bells in her voice rang shrill and pained him, to the point where his teeth gritted together.

"Don't you speak of her," snarled Nathan. The prickly thought couldn't be removed. Gothel's hair was black and curled tempestuously in front of her eyes and down her back. Aside from the pure sex and malice in her demeanor, she bore a strong resemblance to his late wife. Physically. It was unnerving and alluring at once.

"Where did she go," Gothel murmured. "Did she abandon you in your darkest hour?"

That was how it felt, at times. He would never admit that. Removing his glasses and locking the door, he said no. "She was very ill. With child. God rest her soul—I tried to save her. Instead..." Instead, she'd bled out in his arms.

"Oh, my dear." Gothel put her arms around him, her body to his back, and kissed his shoulders.

"I killed her. I killed my wife."

"There, there. It's going to be all right." Sticky prints were left on his throat. She held him tighter. "You worship blood, and blood is what you love." The scalpel, in the hand pressed to his chest, nicked him through the fabric.

He winced out loud. "An accident?"

"Of course not."

Now, that would not do. He pulled her over his shoulder, slamming her back to collide with a counter and trapping her there. Her eyes were eager, frightened as a poor animal that has become prey, and she was breathless from his show of strength and dominance. The little scratch bleeding on his shirt was all but forgotten in his excitement. The monster was coming out to play. Her wrist that held the mighty Repo knife trembled like a chime. Easily, he disarmed the lovely wretch.

* * *

><p>Flower took it step by step, up the stairs, and down the halls until she saw The Door. It had been locked before. She skipped to it and knocked. "Hi again. It's me," she greeted the unseen girl on the other side.<p>

"Ill girl, go be ill elsewhere," the voice snipped back. "You are not coming in."

She pouted and knelt hard enough for her knees to make a noise. "Oh, please? I'll… I'll cry if you don't."

"Oh, no. Don't cry," the girl begged. "I get migraines."

"What's a migraine?" Flower wondered. She examined the doorknob. It was locked with a key, not a switch in the room.

"It's when your head hurts."

"Oh. Okay. I won't cry," Flower said agreeably. "Let me in, please? I won't touch anything unless you let me, and we don't even have to talk! I promise."

The girl sighed. Flower was starting to think that was how she breathed, by sighing long and deep in her lungs. "I can't." Her voice was strained. "Dad's… I'm locked in. Be a good girl and run along. Leave me alone to die," she said in a dramatic tone.

Flower giggled. "Oh, I know about fixing locks!" She unstuck a bobby pin from her bangs, twisted it up, and slid it under the door. "That opens doors. Try it," she urged. She stood up and listened, and the door opened up.

The little girl was short and dainty, with long black hair and big dark eyes and a little mouth. Her arms were blacked out with netting, and her nightgown had a collar that ruffled up to her little chin.

"Oh, you look like a doll!" Flower exclaimed, bounding forward and hugging the girl. She'd never had a playmate before! She had seen children in books, on TV screens, on the streets below the tower, but never in person!

"Get off of me!" the doll girl protested in a panicky voice. She was stiff like a plank. Except softer.

"Oops." Flower let go and was instantly distracted by an enormous stuffed bear on the four poster bed. Squealing, she ran and jumped on the bed—only to sail through plastic, which she hadn't noticed until her body made contact. She had to unstick her skin from it. The bed was bouncy, and the bear was huggable.

The doll girl closed the door and watched Flower warily from there. "You said you wouldn't touch, remember," she reminded her.

"Oh." She _had_ said that. She twitched and looked around the room. There was so much, and it was different from how her room looked.

It took a few minutes for Flower to be calmed down, although with her penchant for hopping about and exclaiming how excited she was at the top of her lungs, it proved a difficult task for the doll girl. She introduced herself as Shilo Wallace, and said that Flower could play in here while the grown-ups were busy, but then she had to leave straight away. There would be absolutely no physical contact between them, she firmly insisted, and then made a pile of the toys and animals that the stranger was allowed to play with. That being said, she took a book and sat on her couch to study.

Flower walked around with a stuffed kangaroo under her arm and inspected everything in the room, her hair trailing like a leash. Finally, she grew the right amount of bored and curious and crept up to Shilo Wallace, and put her hands on the edge of the couch and her chin between her hands. She was almost looking up the dress except not quite. She was looking at her tightly drawn little face, with its tiny, focused scowl.

"Whatcha reading?" she pestered.

"A book."

"About what?"

"Insects."

Flower made a face. "Eww. Why are you doing that?"

"They're beautiful," Shilo said, finally taking her eyes from the text. Flower peered up and was dismayed to find that there were barely any pictures, and the words were teensy, like ants crawling along the page. "No one else likes or understands them. They're shunned. Stepped on. But they are fascinating. Do you want to see?"

Mama coached her on how not to be rude. She didn't really want to see the bugs. She said yes anyway, though, because that was the nice thing to do.

Shilo flew into motion. She set out boxes and cases, kits and displays, of dead, preserved creatures. The girl had stuck pins all in them and made them artful in a dark way. Flower was able to piece together that Shilo transformed the bugs into collections just like she made the walls of her home into a gallery with a brush and paints.

The bugs were just as colorful. Flower wasn't disgusted, like she'd thought. It wasn't gross at all. The whole room was cluttered, but clean nonetheless, and that went for the collection of creepie crawlies. The butterflies were especially pretty, with their delicate, lighter-than-tissue wings carefully spread out and secured.

Flower grinned and jabbed her finger at a bug, accidentally dislodged a needle and tore off a leg. Shilo shrieked and smacked her hard on the cheek.

"Spoiled rotten brat!" she yelped, not paying her any attention, instead devoting all her efforts to trying, in vain, to restore her precious specimen. "_Damn_ it. And damn you, too! Now Dad will have to replace it, and who knows how long that'll take?"

Stunned, Flower pressed her hand to her cheek and kept it there.

* * *

><p>Gothel deduced and adjusted to the reality that her Nathan (how <em>preposterous<em>, he was simply a man, and she had no true claim to him) had a darker, rather more violent self. A split in the gentle personality, and when he'd become twain, the emerging figure was one of violence, mania, and raw power. No doubt that was how he could execute his GeneCo orders, and execute his victims, without troubling his sliver of a conscience.

He would not harm her. She knew that, for he made no attempts to retrieve a knife. All he'd done was strap her to a gurney and tear her clothes off with his teeth, all while she rolled her shoulders and tried to get her hands free gracefully. Ah well, she would have to make do with appreciating his efforts, and not waste time lamenting that she could not be an active participant, as such.

"Repo Man," she purred, and he sprang toward the gurney – he had been grinning rabidly at his reflection in a mirror – and skittered up along her body like a beetle, clicking his teeth and grinding on her bared legs.

He kissed her hard at her jawline and groped her breast.

"Your _wife_, darling, what was her name," she wanted to know.

He hissed and squeezed the pale flesh in hand.

"It would help, dear, sweet Nathan. Come, now. Who's my night surgeon?" she crooned, her voice positively _dripping_ with syrup.

"Marni." He bent his head and nuzzled her cleavage, made fuller with the help of a good bra. She hadn't fed from her source of energy in some time. Almost a week's time, and her age was showing. Her thoughts alternated between useless fretting over her appearance and delight that she was being carnally worshipped by a man who was, perhaps, her equal in wits, ambition, and ruthlessness. Oh, and there was arousal, of course, that familiar shuddering between her thighs and in her bosom.

He gave a sad moan, and then Repo Man carried on, biting and sucking at her skin until she felt raw and wanton. He stripped off his clothes. And then he started, and it was nothing like before. There was very little of that tenderness she'd grown used to and, frankly, bored with. Gothel found foreplay very annoying. It was time when she laid back and rolled her eyes and waited for what she really wanted.

_This_ was what she'd wanted all along. Vicious. Hungry.

He did not talk, grunted, bared his teeth. The glint in his eye was frightening and delightful, intensified the pleasure building in her body.

"Oh, oh, yes, yes Nathan," she murmured, tracing her talons down his back, digging into the skin to make him feel a touch of pain, to make him dig into her deeper.

Repo Man came to his end, and so did she, and they laid on the gurney, spent. Nathan returned from wherever he'd gone off to, and looked horror-struck and ashamed of himself. He undid the straps on her arms and legs, rubbing at the red marks, the slight bruising on her flesh.

"Did—did I hurt you?" he worried.

"Far from it." She grasped his face in both her hands and kissed his mouth. "That was marvelous. Trust me, my dear."

Satisfied with that answer, he closed his eyes and rested his head on her breast, and she stroked his hair, luxuriating in the sensations shivering through her body almost as beautiful as a restoration. From his clothes, abandoned on a counter, there came a most annoying beeping noise, persisting and emitting a message: _Blood pressure warning. Medicine reminder. Medicine reminder._

"What on earth is that? How very annoying," she complained. Nathan bolted up, frantic in an instant.

"Shilo," he groaned, hitting the back of his hand to his forehead and grimacing. He turned to Gothel. "Get dressed. Quickly."

"I'm not used to being ordered about by naked men," she sneered. "Who or what is Shilo?"

Rather than answer her, he hurriedly tugged on his clothes, snapped on his communicator, and left, giving her little choice but to follow him, bemused and displeased with this unexpected turn of events. For once, she'd wanted to cuddle.

Nathan raced to Shilo's room, and was shocked to find the door unlocked. He opened it and saw Shilo choking, hand to her throat, on the floor. Flower had her hands over her eyes and rocked back and forth, her hair a barricade from the frightening scene before her. Nathan, cursing himself for a neglectful fool, snapped out of his horror and into action, fetching Shilo her medicine and water, pressing both into her hand. It had to be her hand that unsnapped the bottle and plucked out the pills. Shakily, she did what she'd practiced for years and took her medicine.

"Shilo, why would you open the door? Why?" he demanded.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, reddening her eyes but failing to alter her sallow complexion. Swallowing bile, she answered that she didn't know.

Flower continued to waver back and forth. He ignored her, hugged his daughter, his precious little girl. He'd be lost without her. In becoming so entrenched in this pet project, he'd nearly forgotten just how much she meant to him.

"I'm okay, Dad. It's fine now." She petted his back briefly before pushing him off.

"Shi, I'm very disappointed," he told her, adjusting her wig.

"It's not my fault," she protested.

"No?"

Soundlessly, she pointed at the blonde cowering in a shroud of hair.

Nathan turned.

"My, oh my. You are a man of secrets, aren't you," came Gothel's voice from the doorway. She hastened to Flower's side and brought her close. Flower sobbed and hugged her mother. Instantly, the woman's hard anger softened with love and concern. "There, there. I'm here. Mother's here to help. Mother won't let anything happen to you, will she?"

"No," Flower agreed, tears in her voice.

"We're leaving." She kissed her child's hair, gently unwound the layers that were wrapped around her and guided her to her feet.

Nathan stood up. "Wait."

Shilo looked around the arm, tense from being surrounded by strangers, people she didn't know who'd seemed to come from nowhere. She didn't care for any of them. What she wanted most was for them to leave her bedroom, like the woman threatened, and let her sleep off the terror of almost—almost what? Dying?

"Explain _this_, Nathan," Gothel bade him. Her hand gestured wildly on 'this' in Shilo's direction, where she sat crumpled on the floor.

Nathan put a hand on Shilo's head. "This is Shilo. She's my daughter."

"Then we have more in common than I thought," she mused. "Why don't I leave you two be. I am not happy about this."

"Nor am I. Shilo is very ill. She's not allowed to have guests. Her door remains locked, and for good reason. What could have happened..." He broke off. He'd been so careless. This could not happen again. "From now on, we'll conduct our business elsewhere."

"Fine."

And with a dramatic flair of her dress, she was gone. Shilo got up and shakily went to the window, fanned out the stranger's perfume.

* * *

><p>True to his word, Nathan's house was now forbidden to the Gothels as a research facility or a place to romp and wreak havoc on his private life. It took weeks to undo the damage caused by the Gothel daughter's intrusion. Physically, nothing was wrong, but psychologically? Nightmare! Shilo had gotten it into her head that she should try breaking out of her room and exploring. He'd caught her outside her room twice, scolded her soundly both times, and finally had to resort to changing the locks. He made only one copy of the new key. Though he insisted it was for her own good, she stubbornly held the change against him for days, refusing to talk to him or hug or kiss goodnight.<p>

That did not mean his lust for Eleanor had cooled in the slightest. On the contrary, she knew just how to draw out the monster so that he could lie with her as he wanted to: unrestrained, passionate, ardent lovemaking when Flower was unconscious in her bedroom, when his performance in research was adequate.

Then, he had a breakthrough, quite by accident, and the vial glowed. He could not believe it at first. It shone brighter than Zydrate, as if some scum of the earth graverobber had harvested from a god. Nathan held it up and saw the glow reflected in Gothel's heavy-lidded eyes. "There," he breathed, afraid that too loud a noise, too grand a reaction would cause it to stop. "There you have it. A healthy glow."

"That's it?" she questioned. "Do you... drink it?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," he said, letting out a laugh. "Do you really want to drink blood?"

"For youth... beauty... I would."

And there was no doubt in his mind that she was serious. It troubled him, created unease.

"Let's try injecting it." He took a Zydrate gun from his bag and fitted the gun with the new vial while it still glowed, determined as an inanimate object could be. With all the tender care of a lover – which, now that he thought about it, was what he was—he rolled up her billowy sleeve and injected her with the fresh glow. It pooled in her veins, at the injection site, visible below the surface, and shot up through the rest of her, through the ends of her hair and all down her body. He stroked her hand as she watched her body's reaction in alarm. The light subsided. The change rendered by that light, however, did not.

A newness had permeated her whole self. She looked to be twenty.

"My God," he said.

This was unnatural. This was not right. Rotti would have been proud, and would want to capitalize on this as soon as he heard about this. And why wouldn't he? He owned the world! If Gothel refused out of selfish pride, and entreated Nathan to join her in foolish rebellion, they'd be dead. The king of the island would have no qualms about sending someone to assassinate the loyal assassin.

If he died, Shilo would have no one. She would die in her bedroom, choking on air and hating him for abandoning her in her time of greatest need.

Whether it was an attack of his conscience or a sudden strike of self preservation or both, Nathan knew this was a mistake that could not be repeated. As his thoughts raced to their awful conclusion, Gothel examined herself in the mirror, pinched and dragged at her skin. Nothing sagged. She was smooth, beautiful, perfect. It was an abomination.

"Eleanor."

"Oh, Nathan, you marvelous man! And here I never thought you had it in you. Oh, I'm just kidding, don't be so serious! Always so serious," she chattered. She squeezed her breasts. "So firm! So pert! Darling, you _must_ try me out. How long will this last, do you think?"

He couldn't say.

Elsewhere, Shilo's hoarding at last took its toll. She collapsed beside her desk, went slack, as if in a deep sleep. Nathan's wrist was speaking to him. It fairly screamed, at least to him it seemed that it should have been screaming instead of that cool, calm drone. Not medicine reminder. It said warning, warning; patient has gone into shock. Warning.

"No, oh no," he said, and grabbed his bag, his papers. "Shilo!"

"Oh, her again. Nathan, leave her be." Gothel purred, stepping in his way.

"She is my daughter! I'm her doctor. I have to be there for her," he said.

"Yes, you're very attentive. Stay here. Help me celebrate," she suggested with a smile.

"Are you out of your mind? She could be dying right now! She could be—Oh, move!" He moved her aside, roughly.

"It's high time she learned to fend for herself, Nathan Wallace!" she shouted.

"She's a _child_, Eleanor!"

"Enough with the holier-than-thou attitude! You're the night surgeon, remember?" she jeered cruelly.

He turned back, his expression ablaze with fury. Behind the fury was a tempered hurt. This was it for them. No more. She cared only for herself. It was doubtful if she even cared for her daughter. He could have no future with her, and he had deluded himself by ever thinking that would be possible. It only reinforced that the only woman for him was Marni, and she was dead and gone. Shilo. He had to get home to Shilo before it was too late. He spoke quickly. "Of course I do. But she needs me. Goodbye."

Panicking, she chased him to the elevator. "Nathan! Nathan, wait, I didn't mean it. Ha ha, of course not!" She faked the little laugh. "Nathan, what about our research? What about changing the world?"

"Give it up. Age gracefully," he advised her. "Just leave me out of it." The elevator doors closed in her face. It gave him no satisfaction, because he had to save his child. That was all that really mattered.

Shilo was comatose on her bedroom floor. He wailed, thinking he'd lost her as he'd lost Marni: a terrible mistake, and him to blame. When he held her, he detected a heartbeat, and his pulse leaped. He took care of her, brought her back, and vowed to let no one come between them ever again, especially no soulless Marni lookalikes.

He and Eleanor did not speak again, and Shilo was so frightened by what her reckless bad habit had caused that she dutifully took her medicine on schedule from there on.


	3. Chapter 3

"Flynn, baby," the girl cooed, rolling onto his chest and splaying her hands there. Her legs eased open. "I've been a good girl. Won't you give me a kiss?"

He smiled, an easy, well-practiced, smarmy grin. "Oh, fine, since you insist." His hands went behind her back and he kissed her mouth. She tasted like a potent combination of Zydrate and vodka. It was intoxicating! He'd done this before—with her, even, and still he found it exciting, adventurous. Sleeping with her, skulking around. Thieving jewels by day and hearts by night! Imagine! Sometimes it went the other way, like this day, when he tumbled and rolled around in her bed with her.

"How's that?" he asked, then boasted, "Pretty fantastic, am I right?"

In answer, Amber's fingers hooked in his hair and hauled his head up for a more intensive exploration, her tongue darting about rather nimbly for someone who was more than halfway to drunkenness. He made a sound, felt his body react, ran his hands up from her stomach to her breasts. She arched into his touch, kneeling on him. It wasn't perfectly comfortable, but he wasn't going to complain; he had an heiress's breasts in his hands and her tongue in his mouth. If he complained, he would be an absolute numskull. He turned them around so she was beneath him, and he removed her leather jacket. Underneath... a sparkly bra, pushing her breasts up and together cozily. He basked in the gleaming sequins, dropping his head to rest in her cleavage.

"Ahhh," he said happily.

She smacked and shoved at him. "You're heavy, you oaf! Off!"

He obeyed, springing up and standing on her bed with his hands on his hips. He grinned down at her, with her hair mussed and her chest pretty well exposed, her skirt pushed up. "Wow. I could get used to a sight like this."

"Flynn," she said.

"Yep. I'm used to it."

Amber kicked his feet out from under him, pounced, and they tussled together like animals, and if she was an animal, she'd be a puma, using teeth and nails to her advantage, mauling him, tearing at his clothes and devouring him with kisses. At the same time, she would slink and purr and be suave. The duality of her primal nature and her practiced, seductive airs was fascinating to watch and fun to experience. He gave back, tore at her clothes, and experienced her body in ways most men could only dream of.

It was the life. Every guy wanted it, wanted _her_, and Flynn actually had achieved it—somehow. He was always fuzzy on the details, how he'd finagled his way into her bed and into his thieving occupation. Still, with her sleeping afterward, the surgery scars exposed, he couldn't help but feel... empty.

The next evening, he broke in and stole several of Sweet's necklaces, stuffing them in his bag. She'd never notice, and if she did, he'd be long gone. There was no doubt in his mind that she could replace him in her bed in the blink of an eye. He'd held no illusions about what they had, or that she was exclusive to him. Fact was, she got around more than he did. And he had no problem with that. It did make the leaving easier.

Sweet was drugged up enough that it was easy not to disturb her, though a part of him wanted to, just so he could be chased. Oh, how he loved the chase... but, alas, the night called to him. There were other riches to be had. He went out, ran off, and into the graveyard.

Unfortunately, he did find someone to chase him, and it wasn't the hundred and twenty pound Amber in stiletto heels and fetish gear. No, he had to go and bait a pack of GenCops with their scary guns.

"I'm genuinely scared now!" he yelped as he ran. Seeing an open door about to close, he raced up and slid in. It closed and locked behind him, putting a barrier between him and the police. He caught his breath before taking a look around. He looked to be in a tomb, although it didn't smell like dead people.

A slab was on the ground. He knelt to read the inscription. Marni Wallace. It didn't ring any bells, which was unsurprising, given how many of the city's population was dead. Or dying. Either way. And Flynn didn't have many connections, sort of a lone wolf. He preferred it that way. It discouraged unpleasant entanglements.

The lady had died young. Too bad. He avoided walking on her grave and went on to the passageway and through. It was spooky, lined with torches, but naturally it didn't bother him. A rat ran by his feet. "Geh!" He recovered quickly, smoothing his hair back. No one had seen that. Good. Onward!

The passageway spat out into a living room. A pretty nice one, too. Flynn went to the front door, to go on his merry way unbothered by GeneCo security. However. He heard a noise from upstairs, and he went to investigate. There was much to take and turn for profit, but none small enough to carry. Music carried him through the very dark hallway toward a bedroom. It was so dark, in fact, that he could barely see what was in front of him. He tried the door and found it locked. Interest now piqued, he jimmied the lock and opened the door without a sound. The room he found himself in was girly and cluttered and adorable.

A little lady slept in a bed that was too big for her, protected by a plastic canopy. Ruffles went up to her chin and fishnets went down from shoulders to fingers, ornamented by silver rings. Whoever this house and the girl belonged to had to be very moneyed. Flynn was careful not to make a sound as he surveyed for valuables that would fit in his pack. And then he saw it. Very rare. Very beautiful. The bug glowed in the jar, still alive. Rumor had it that the bug itself harvested Zydrate. He had to have it.

He reached for it. There was a shriek.

"Hands off the bug!" screeched the little miss, darting out of bed, pushing past the plastic. He panicked and headed for the door. She chased him in sock-clad feet, picking up her boots on the way out. Long-fingered hands grabbed the back of his shirt. Not wanting to drag her down the stairs, he stopped, fast, slamming the brakes on his heels, and in surprise she slammed to a halt against him and let go. He couldn't get a good look at her, from that angle, but she felt just tiny. She pushed away, and he turned to face the girl. She was panting, and her nightgown barely covered the essentials, especially with how she was leaning back.

"Give it here," she demanded, holding out her hand and beckoning with four fingers.

"Sorry, but I gotta run!" He gave a quick and casual salute and ran down the stairs. The girl slid down the banister after him and chased him all the way outside, where she promptly fell to her knees and began hacking up a storm.

He danced from foot to foot in indecision. To run, or to be a gentleman? What would Flynn Rider do? Flynn Rider would help the damsel in distress. Cursing, he went to her. "Hey, you okay?"

"Need my pill," she gasped. "I can't—I shouldn't be outside."

"Where are your pills," he said, enunciating carefully. Her eyes were rolling around like marbles. He shook her. "Hey! Your pills. Where are they?"

"Bedroom," she said weakly, and he hurried off to fetch them. Flynn came back to the girl curled up outside the front door and gave her the pill. Mumbling that she didn't have water to chase it with, she popped it. After a minute, she sat up, caught her breath. There was a guilty puppy look in her big eyes.

"You weren't sleeping, you fink!" he realized.

"You're the fink." She tugged on her boots and accepted the hand that pulled her to her feet. Then she screamed "Get back here!" when he ran again, and she took chase, across the street, through a backyard or three, into a tomb, where he caught her and pushed her down, purely concerned for her obviously delicate condition.

"What's so special about this bug?" he asked.

"It glows," she said, all quiet. "I want it back."

"No can do. See, I'm in need of some Zydrate..."

Her brow furrowed. "Some what?"

He stared. How sheltered was she? "... Forget it. It's a drug. It makes you feel good," he explained slowly, exaggerating his words and expression.

"It's a narcotic?"

"It's a painkiller. An expensive one."

"It—the bug, I mean—completed my collection. It's everything to me," she said shyly, getting up and dusting herself off.

"Too bad." He headed for the exit. Again, she grabbed onto his clothes, which frankly he was getting a little tired of, but he stopped anyway, with a great sigh. "You know what, why don't you stop following me?"

"I won't."

"Fine. Then stop grabbing me! You're free to follow along, but I am _not_ giving up this bug." Now it was more from stubbornness than anything else. He had to prove a point and win this battle of wills. He needed to win and get the upper hand, even though he'd all ready gotten it; Flynn had the bug and the muscles to keep it. But, man, was she persistent. "Listen, Gothette..."

"It's Shilo," she corrected sullenly.

"Shy-low. What kind of a name is that?"

"My daddy likes it. Speaking of." Her fingers fumbled together, and her knees shook before the admission. Shy or frightened or both. Maybe her shyness was the inspiration for her ridiculous name. "I called him when I was _pretending_ to be asleep. He'll beat you up."

"You may not have noticed, 'Lo, but we are not in your house. Call away, because he will never find me." He laughed, AHAHA, like a dramatic villain. He coughed. "In all seriousness, all that will do is alert him that you are not in bed, and it is bedtime for young girls."

Horror crossed her face, and her hands flew to her heart. "Oh no. I'm not allowed outside."

"You've said that. Metaphor?" he asked.

"What? No! It's a rule. I can't... I can't go outside. Or talk to strangers." She took a step backwards, wary of him and his intentions, no doubt.

"Well, guess you'd better go on back to your room. Your bug will be safe with me," he said, and sighed. "Damn, and I was so looking forward to travelling with you." He put an arm around her shoulders and pushed her toward the exit.

She locked her heels down and shoved him away, anger and fear flitting across her small, mouse-like features. "No! I am not going back without my bug." Quieter now, she said, "Besides, I'm in trouble regardless. It has to be worth it." In wonder, she looked around, taking stock of her surroundings. "I've never been outside 'til now."

"Yes, and growth, new experiences, all that? Great for building character. Now, in return, will you have to make some sacrifices? Sure! Will it decimate the foundation of yours and your father's relationship? Of course! Is it possible that..."

"Enough with the rhetorical questions," she sneered. "I am not going back without my bug, and that's final."

His shoulders slumped. But that trick _always_ worked. "Fine," he groaned. "Whatever, you can come along. I guess."

"R-really? You'll let me?"

He'd try to pawn her off on the nearest person, granted they didn't seem liable to harm her... Oh, wait. Perhaps he could scare her into taking flight and retreating back to her nest. Flynn, you sly dog, he congratulated himself. And he knew just the place.

"Yes. Think of me as your guide on this, your first foray into the world!" he said. She smiled.

"Oh, um. If you're thinking of ditching me, know that you... you can't," she said feebly.

"No need for that. I wouldn't leave you stranded. Do you have any idea where you are?" Flynn asked her, amused.

"N-no." And she fell quiet as a corpse. He looked around the tomb for valuables, declaring her creepy for watching him so closely, accusing her of violating him and looking at his rear—a claim which she, blushing, meekly denied. The ladies could not resist Flynn Rider. It was physically impossible for him to be ignored by females, or the occasional man. He didn't blame her. His bag was filled with coins and jewelry. "You're stealing," the girl hissed.

"Yes? Good, you can identify basic actions. Now describe in more detail," he deadpanned.

"That's wrong. It isn't yours," she protested. "Put it back."

"Lo, I will do no such thing. This is my bread and butter, almost literally."

"It's Shilo, okay? Shilo!" She trotted over and put her hands on her hips, nostrils flaring. A bull about to charge. A short, goth bull, and Flynn was the capable matador, teasing and turning the bull about for her frustration and his fun. He grinned at the image.

"Okay, okay. Shilo. Sheesh, are you a nag."

"I am not," she protested.

"Nag, nag, nag," he teased, leaving the crypt, the girl following, his entourage of one, his tiny anti-fan club.

Twisting, the city streets mangled by corpses elicited disgusted and frightened howls from Shilo. Finding her naivety hilarious, Flynn offered macabre comments aimed at the decidedly unresponsive victims of Repo Men. The girl did not appreciate his attempts at comedy, shooting him glares and hissing that those were _people_ he was talking about, for God's sake, and to have some respect.

"People die every day. Everyone's going to lose sometime," he said, stopping the routine and becoming serious.

* * *

><p>No longer the teenager of lo those many years ago, the man fast nearing thirty paused in his search of the rarest flower – indeed, a species of flora most agreed extinct, if it had ever existed at all—to gaze at the sudden light, coming from the derelict tower. No movement had come from it for ten years. Not by night, anyway. But now a light came from the window, as if straight from God above, and Graverobber paused in his task, curiosity filling him to the brim. He stole closer. A very young girl sat on the ledge, a curtain of her golden hair falling down her back and into the tower behind her. Her legs dangled, and she was very still, her hands clutching the stones, her expression still, determined, afraid. He came closer to hear what she murmured. In the absolute silence of night, her grim voice carried down with clarity.<p>

"I'm going to do it." She pushed forward on the ledge some.

"Don't!" he yelled, surprising himself. "Don't do it."

She gasped and nearly fell off right there, managed to steady herself to continue the conversation, it seemed.

"Who _are_ you?" she called down. "And what do you care?"

"If you kill yourself, I'll have to clean up," he informed her. "I am Graverobber, at your service." He gave a low bow and looked up, holding his breath, hoping, waiting. She was holding her breath, too. In the pale moonlight, with lights behind her, she glowed and was beautiful. It was then that he noticed cuts on her arms, fresh ones, deep vertical cuts along each forearm that dripped blood onto her long pink skirt, marring it. He was obsessed at once with the beauty contrasting with her injuries. The red in her round cheeks mirrored that fresh, running blood, and her brilliant green eyes were hollowed with what unknown horrors she'd endured. She wore no makeup and was not pale. He smiled up at her, offering warmth and what comfort he could from way below.

"Very well. Then I will wait until a later time, when you are not there," she said stiffly, and pushed herself back into her tower, ending the conversation.

Not satisfied with this, Graverobber decided then and there that he would either compel her to join him safely on the ground or he would journey up and talk her down from a future attempt. Looks like that weren't meant to be wasted.

He would have gone up the traditional way, except the door was locked and barricaded from the inside. How inconvenient! Scratching his scalp, he surveyed the area for another way up. There wasn't much in the way of helpful trees... there was, however, ivy growing up the tower, all the way to the young lady's window. Graverobber was no fool. He tested it first, grabbing handfuls and hoisting himself a few feet off the ground. It held him. The stuff was rooted into the bricks, steadfast and wondrous for his purposes. And there were footholds. Handy.

He began his ascent, a little quicker than he intended due to anxiety. Graverobber did not want to fall on his back from that high up. The security of the ground abandoned him, and there was no going back. Smirking at his fear and casting it aside, he utilized what there was, using the vines and the gaps in the walls to reach the ledge. His arms were strong enough, and soon the ledge was in an arm's reach. How the girl could stand the idea of jumping from this height was beyond Graverobber. He was brave, and even this was a bit much for him.

Grabbing the ledge, he swung himself over and onto the balcony. A handy hook helped him swing in through the window onto the tower floor. For a moment, all he could do was catch his breath, and after, he looked around. The place was sparse aside from the plethora of multi-colored paintings on the walls: animals, spirals, suns, and the girl he'd seen in the window. All were slightly off or downright macabre. The animals were impaled on spikes and bleeding profusely, or devouring each other. The suns were red and boiled the subjects beneath them. The spirals seemed to ooze with pus, and as for the girl? She sported horrible wounds, bled from her eyes, her mouth, her hands, like stigmata, and her eyes were hollows, begging, weeping.

A figure hid in the shadowy underbelly of a desk, with just the whites of the girl's eyes visible. He approached and stooped with his hands on his knees.

"Hello, little one," he greeted her, and offered her his hand.

She shrank back, arms folded over her chest protectively. "How did you get up here?"

"I climbed." He showed her the red marks on his hands where the vines had dug in. "See?"

Her voice was a whisper. "Why?"

"I wanted to see you. Come on out. You're hurting my knees." He stood up, grumbling. He wasn't as physically capable as he'd once been, and his work was slowly destroying his body. But he didn't care about that at the moment. The girl intrigued him, and he liked intrigue in his women.

She came out of the underside of the desk, and as she drew up and stepped into the light, his mouth dropped open. By God, she was beautiful. Not allowing himself to show more than that moment of being taken aback by the presence of the beauty of this mysterious girl, he smiled and nodded his head once in a kind of bow. "Might I know your name?"

"Rapunzel," she hesitated. "Rapunzel." She seemed like a deer about to bolt. He dearly hoped she wouldn't, especially because his efforts would then be wasted, and he really hated that.

"What a lovely name. Enchanted to make your acquaintance, miss," he said, having decided that she was not exactly little, and that pet name would not work for her, not at all. "I am the Graverobber."

"Dumb to- to ask what you do for a living?" she asked with a slow, shy smile. "Isn't that kind of morbid?"

He shrugged and tossed his hair back. "It keeps me on my toes. Gives me perspective. There's plenty worse ways to make a living."

"Like what?"

Full of questions, this one. He leered, "You don't want to know, missy."

She blinked quite rapidly and dropped what had been behind her back: a frying pan. It hit the wood floor with a resounding clunk, and she looked horrified at the noise. Her head swiveled as she listened hard for some indefinable something that his keen senses could not discern. Then she relaxed, breathed a relieved sigh. "Whew. She's out cold, I guess," she muttered. He took a step closer.

"Who?"

"My… my mother." She gathered up her hair in her arms. He noticed how absurdly, cartoonishly long it was, and thick, and the color of gold and just as beautiful. It wound across the floor until she wound it in her arms in great bundles. He couldn't imagine how she went around with all that weighing her down; the tug on her scalp alone must have been incredibly uncomfortable. "She put herself to sleep a while ago."

Oh, how sad. The child of an addict. "Zydrate?" he asked her. After a baffled second followed by recognition, she shook her head. He growled just enough to make her shiver and in a deep voice asked, "Then what?"

"What what?"

"You know very well. What did she use?" he pressed.

She closed her eyes and took a breath to steady herself, breathed out and opened her eyes, her expression tentative, terrified. "Me." Rapunzel would not answer any more questions, shaking her head, lips tightly pressed. Instead, she got him a cup of hot chocolate and said they probably had until morning before her mother woke up and made him go. "I don't know what she'd do if she found you here, but it wouldn't be any good," she said, sipping at her mug. It burned her tongue and she said "ow ow hot hot!" and remembered to blow on the contents after that. Graverobber grinned. It was odd, being so high up off the ground.

He was glad she hadn't jumped. This was the best cocoa he'd had in a while, and he said as much. Her red cheeks grew redder, and she mumbled thanks. "You know you're named after a plant?" he said casually.

"I- I didn't know that, actually. Mother does call me Flower. When she's angry or when she's comforting. It's her little name for me."

"Well, Rapunzel, you'll be pleased to learn that your particular breed of flower is exceptionally rare. Near about extinct, or so I'm told. In fact, when I'm not harvesting and selling Z, I spend my time in the world's backyard—yours in particular—seeking this precious flower." He had stumbled on something far more interesting, however, and he smiled at his discovery. When she reached up on a high cabinet for the fluffy marshmallows to pack into her cocoa, he admired her hips and those long legs. She was a little like a horse or donkey, but much more attractive. Gazelle would be a more appropriate comparison.

"What's so special about this flower that you'll go looking for it all the time?" she asked, taking her seat across from him again. Her fingertips danced across the surface of the marshmallows, pushing them down into the chocolate. The whites melted and swirled.

"Not all the time," he refuted, though he'd been searching, off and on, for a decade. "They say it's the bud of eternal youth and beauty."

"And that's my namesake? Huh." She looked a little pleased, and what girl wouldn't be? The mother had the right idea.

"So they say. Rumors can be wrong." He cleared his throat, looked left and right, and leaned closer to her. "Why were you going to do it?"

"It?"

"Jump." He jerked his head toward the window. "Seems a long way down."

"It… it is." She bit her lip. "Oh my gosh. I… this was a mistake. It's bad to entertain guests without Mother's say-so. Please- please go." She stood up and pointed to the window emphatically.

"Rapunzel, I climbed all the way up here to talk to you, help you if I could. I am not climbing down." It was enough of a pain getting up. He stood up and shoved the chair aside, lowering his face to hers. "You can trust me. Got it?"

Timidly, she nodded. "Okay."

"Now. We're going to have a little chat and iron this whole thing out," he said, but the girl had other ideas. She went to the window.

"You know… I've always wanted to go outside. I was too scared to go without a guide." Hopefully, she smiled at him. "You'd be a good guide, I think. You're very scary, anyway, so I wouldn't have to worry about ruffians and thugs."

"I _am_ a ruffian," he laughed.

"Oh. But you're a nice one! Besides, I wanted to leave home," and it trailed off into incomprehensible muttering.

"Speak up, miss. Can't hardly understand," he gently prompted.

"Death seemed like a good way to leave. Guess that's pretty silly," she mumbled, sheepish and unbearably sweet. She looked down at her bare feet.

His finger lifted up her chin, and he said, "Nothing stupid about it. What are you escaping from?"

She seemed about to crack, her large green eyes widening and expressing an open, unpolished pain. Then she broke away, pushing his arm aside. "Can we leave now?"

He eyed her. She didn't look strong enough to make the descent, and he sure as hell wasn't going to carry her. "How are we going to do that? We're a long ways up."

Leaning out the window in spite of his protests, she took a loop of her hair and wrapped it around the hook, knotting tight. "I do this for Mother," she explained. "Always wanted to try it!"

Hollering with glee, she let go, and swung quickly down to the ground, then stopped, hovering a few inches off the ground, letting go slowly. Her soles touched the ground. "Come on. It's secure," she called up to him, using her hands as a megaphone. "Take it and swing, then we'll unhook it!"

He heard a rustle behind him. Hurrying, he went to the hook, gathered a loose loop in his hands and hoping it wouldn't hurt her. But no, she stood at the bottom with her hair gathered in her arms, and he let go, dropping down to the grass and the brambles. He put an arm around her to give her the leverage needed to unhook her hair from the top of the tower.

She said, "I'm free."


	4. Chapter 4

Nathan said goodbye to his last patient, a pregnant teenager, and hoped to God that Shilo would never find herself in such a predicament. He shook his head and chuckled a little; what nonsense, where would she even meet a man? Other than himself, of course, and he didn't count. When the time came to introduce Shilo to the world – and, as she grew older, he sensed that time was rapidly approaching—he would teach her the ways of men, and to stay away from them. The problem with young women these days was a lack of parental supervision and instruction; the problem was that children could not be left to their own devices. Shilo was certainly no exception.

Goodbye to his secretary, sent a message to his boss, Mr Largo, and into his car, through the dead streets to the warm embrace of his home, where his hidden child waited, nestled safe and sound in Marni's old bed.

Out of habit, he checked his phone. A message from an hour ago, from his own Shilo; strange. He played it back as he hung up his coat and keys and heard silence, then footsteps and a rattling within the lock. She cursed softly and hung up, leaving him listening to static. He felt a hand grip his foolish heart.

And as he wandered up the stairs, each increasingly desperate call of her name ("Shilo, please answer me!") returning only awful silence, his thoughts berated him: How could he have left his darling girl alone?

What relief he felt to find her door closed. Perhaps it had been a dreadful mistake, after all. Nothing to worry about, old man, no reason to fear her improbable departure. Nathan sighed, gritted his teeth, and fitted the key that generally resided in his pocket to the lock to twist and grant him entrance.

The room was cold and dark, the window flung open, the wind sending shivers through his unprepared body. A cursory glance informed him that she was in bed where she belonged, and he chuckled that she'd fallen asleep with the window open. He'd berate her for it later and lie, tell her that the outside air could damage her. On his way there:

"Nathan?"

He whirled. Marni—no, it was not his beautiful Marni who emerged from the bed to saunter on black booted heels toward him. The woman standing before him had not aged by one wrinkle or spot in the ten years since they had parted ways, and so in horror he recoiled from Eleanor Gothel.

"Where…"

He ripped aside the curtains on the window, the curtains on the bed.

Shilo was gone.

Gothel tutted when the father continued his search, growing more frantic, tossing aside stuffed animals, throwing back blankets and pillows. "Uh-uh, I'm afraid you won't find her here, Doctor."

All of his terror transformed into rage in that instant. There was a white hot blaze behind his spectacles, a pounding inside his skull that drowned out all other noise and thought and sensibility, that she could not have done this, that she had no reason. No room for caring for this fellow human, he turned on her, breathing hard.

Nathan snarled "Where is she?" and, driving her down onto the bed with frightening force, and slammed his strong arm against her throat. He knelt over her. "You tell me where she is!" he growled at the woman choking and gasping beneath him. Despite the conditions in which she found herself, she managed to undulate enticingly beneath his weight. He focused on the pulsing in her neck, on how satisfying it was to watch her struggle for air. Oh, how easy it would be to press harder and watch her eyes froth white and roll back in her head. How long would he have to hold her roughly here before she lost consciousness and became a doll helpless to his merciless whims?

It occurred to him that she was writhing, but not struggling. Struggling for air, yes, yet not for her freedom. Doubt crept in, uninvited. Peaceful from the lack of oxygen, her lovely face resembled Marni's in the throes of death, stealing the malice from her spirit, taking everything and feeding something to him in return. In a moment, he was reliving Marni's final moments as she choked on her own blood and he retrieved Shilo from her womb.

Shocked, he stumbled backwards and off of the strangling soul. That had been too close to him making a mistake. Gothel's hand flew to her neck and she coughed and sputtered, wheezing in air. A bit overdone, he thought wryly, before his thoughts flew back to the little bird that had fallen from her protective cage.

Turning, he strode from her bedroom, calling for her, not waiting for an answer. Her name rang through the hallway and down the stairs along with him. He stood in the foyer and looked helplessly around and shouted, "Shilo!"

No answer.

It would do no good to panic again. That would lead to error. Perhaps if he retraced his steps… no, that did not even make any sense. Shilo was not an object, she was a person; how did one misplace a person, especially one so weak and fragile?

He'd found the door locked, the window open…

Nathan returned to Shilo's room, intent on detaining Gothel, apologizing, and extracting information from her smug lips. Instead, he found an empty room, an open window, and a still warm place on the bed.

* * *

><p>"Now, don't be shy. Or afraid. Never, ever show fear. These people will mug you blind," Flynn warned her.<p>

"What does that even mean? That's 'rob you blind,' you peabrain," she glowered.

He smirked. Oh, this was going to be _so_ good. She'd go running for the hills, lickety-split. "It means be careful. You don't have any money on you, do you? No? Great!" He grinned in the face of her eye-rolling scowl.

"Why are we doing this?"

"I need money to put us up for the night. Unless…" He glanced sideways at her as they walked the streets, as he counted the streets quietly to himself.

"Unless what?"

"Unless you'd rather sleep in a tomb. They can be pretty drafty. Now, I speak from experience here, the dead are not great company, but they'll do in a pinch."

"Ugh… You're revolting."

"I take that as a compliment. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight—STOP!" He threw his arm out, catching her squarely in the chest and, he suspected, knocking the breath from her little lungs. She glared at him fiercely, but what did it matter? They were there: the alleyway, the black-bricked one that led through a sideways entrance into a cozy, smoke-filled and poorly lit den of zaddicts. Garbage strewn across the dirty concrete, posters fluttering on the walls, and a slot over the door he confidently strode up to and knocked on.

"Password?" a gruff voice said.

"Knock it off, it's me," Flynn replied with a laugh.

The door swung open and the music died with a shouted "SHUT IT!" In silence, Flynn entered the place. Shilo hovered out in the alleyway. He looked over his shoulder.

"I think I'll wait out here," she said nervously.

"Be my guest. Have fun getting mugged," he said nonchalantly.

He let the door close with a creak and a click.

She stood there. A rat squeaked by a dumpster; Shilo shrieked and dashed forward, opened the door and then she was over the threshold, clinging to Flynn's arm. His amused eyes met hers, but he kept his smile in check for their present company.

These were no ordinary zaddicts. They had lost everything, all home and dignity and even family, and come out the other side stronger and stranger, barely recognizable as human with their replaced, stretched faces and their unnatural proportions. Travelers, they kept a loose base of operations in this guarded building while sending out scavengers for new resources and new information on new procedures. Their power was growing in the underbelly of the city. And meanwhile, the folk whispered and fornicated and watched the news with bared eyeballs. Here, picking at her ear dumbly in the corner, a noseless woman with enormous lips; there, his mouth to a girl's unclothed shoulder, a man with a forked tongue and an awful shine to his reptilian orange eyes. And the further the pair ventured into the room, the closer and more frightening and tighter knit grew the crowd. Shilo would not let go of the arm that kept her grounded, kept her from panicking, kept her from breath from stopping short.

"Hey, dolls, it's Flynn Rider."

An old woman with red ringlets and drooping earlobes approached through a crowd that parted majestically (majestically, at least, considering the sorry quality of the people that made up the scene) before her. She grinned bright.

"Monsieur, what can we travelers do for you?"

"For me? Uh, yes!" And he indicated the girl clinging to his side, cheekily saying, "My wife and I are looking for a place to spend our honeymoon. A lovely night under the moon with authorities after us didn't seem like it would quite get her engine running. _If you know what I mean by that_," he said in a hushed aside against the side of his hammy hand.

"But of course!" she crooned. "Let's see, two individuals, one room…"

"Married," he interjected helpfully; Shilo had let go of his arm and backed a pace from him, hands clapped to her open, horrified mouth. So let her worry. Were he a monster, he could pressure her, but he was not. If she couldn't read his ruse, it wasn't his problem. "She's a little shy."

"The Albatross Motel should do. You know where that is?"

"No kidding, you guys own that shack-up joint? Nice going!" he said. He shoved his hand in his pocket, digging about for a wallet that wasn't even there. "So, what do I owe ya?"

"Owe us? Why, Flynn, you never repaid your debt from the last time… That tip-off about Amber Sweet," she tsk-tsked, shaking her head.

"Oh, that!" He forced a laugh. "I could've found her on my own, of course, but you said you had the dirt, and boy did you ever. Let's let bygones be bygones, what do you say?"

With surprising speed, the woman grabbed Shilo and held a knife to her throat. "I don't think that will be quite enough," she growled.

"Whoa there. Let's not be hasty," Flynn said, holding up his hands. "I'll pay you and we can all act like reasonable people." He was panicking… he was _caring_.

"You know, I had a son your age once. Of course, I traded him for some magic beans," she hissed to Shilo. "Oh, I can't hurt you, even for his sake." To Flynn, she snapped, "Be quick, boy" and let Shilo go, pushing her in his direction.

Instinctively, he caught her to his chest. She recovered from the shock there, her chest heaving, each breath a little more painful, and she could still feel the sharp metal on her skin. Like a little rabbit, she was afraid and wanted to run. All she could do was hold him, shameful and strange as it was. He seemed to sense her panic and rubbed one hand over her back, saying "shh, shh." To the woman he said, "Here." She felt him reach with one arm into his pocket and she panicked; he was going to sell her bug! How could he?

Instead she heard the jingle of coins. Her heart lightened and took off on wings. "I'll deposit the rest of your money tomorrow morning, after we rest," he informed the woman. "But you will get what's coming to you."

"Spit on what I'm owed if that makes you feel better, love," she cackled. "Have a good night, lovebirds."

"Come on, 'Lo. Let's get out of here," he said, taking her hand. She found the courage and the disdain to slap it off and walk ahead of him out the door.

It took them half an hour's walk to reach the slummy motel. Flynn made her wait outside the office while he talked to the nice man with the cigar hanging out of his big mouth. He left in rather a hurry, grabbing her shoulder and pointing her towards a room downstairs with an open door.

"Care to check it out first or must I?" Flynn inquired.

"You're such a baby," Shilo said, though her voice trembled, and she ventured forth and into the room.

Inside were sparse furnishings: television on the wall, a table and chairs in the corner, a bathroom with shower, not tub, closet near the door, and one bed. She stood at the foot of it, staring at it with quiet dread. One bed.

"Don't even think about trying to get into that bed, princess. I paid for this room and you're here as a kindness; you get the cot," Flynn told her, pointing at the closet.

Shilo wasn't sure whether to be relieved or angry or both, but she went to the closet full of wire hangers and no clothes, retrieved the folded-up cot, and set it up on the stained blue carpet. It would be just barely big enough for her. She sighed; oh well, it could always be worse.

* * *

><p>"So, what do you think?"<p>

"What is this stuff called? It's delicious!"

"That is a hot dog."

"Oh goodness, I'm eating dog?!" the girl shrieked and startled, and looked as if she might shortly be sick. Graverobber laughed, stepping back to avoid doing so in her face; he'd been standing very close, after all.

"It's the mashed up scraps of a cow. They just call it a hot dog," he explained to her, and her expression calmed into one of mild confusion.

This was followed by a five minute discussion on the strange names of food and the contents therein. Most of them she'd never heard of, for the outside world was new to her, and the whole day long had been spent in wide-eyed wonder on her part, while he yawned and tried very hard not to stumble, for he was not used to being up and awake while the smoggy sun was above the horizon.

And yet, that was what they had done the whole day long, was wander, him steering her about the city

He leered at her when she opened her mouth to slide in the hot dog. She paused the progression with mustard on her chin and asked, smiling, "What?" And a bit more worriedly when he did not immediately fix his expression: "What? Is there something on my face?" Graverobber made himself angelic.

"Nothing, my dear, nothing. I was just…" He contemplated if he dared chance that she would understand innuendo. The girl seemed terribly innocent… and terribly young, but that hadn't stopped him before, with others.

"What?"

She stuck the remainder in her mouth, letting it poke her cheek and fill it 'till she chewed, whence she resembled an attractive hamster. All of her expressions had come out animated and alive the further they'd gone from the tower at the edge of town. It was remarkable how she had gone from being demure and twitchily afraid of everything besides him—when, really, everyone was afraid of him, and she had no reason to take exception with that common sense rule—to skipping and pointing and laughing and breathing in the air with such gusto as he'd never seen in a citizen of their dreary town.

And, naturally, he had to corrupt that.

"Don't you realize what a lovely sight you make, dear, when you stuff your gob?" he teased.

And, naturally, he couldn't do it. Not yet.

It was then that Rapunzel acted quite strange. Stranger than before, anyway: she froze, then darted behind him, holding onto his arms, fingers digging in. "Don't move," she hissed in his ear. She was uncommonly tall for her age and gender, he just noticed, not that it detracted from her air of spritely, porcelain delicateness.

"Wasn't gonna," he hissed back. "What's wrong?"

"See that woman? No, don't look, don't look, don't let her see you!" she bade him, fear riddling her voice and rendering it squeaky and unfamiliar. His sight found a woman with curly black hair and swaying, generous hips... and really, she was generous all over, in a really good way. The girl had never been outside, so the woman could only be the mother he'd heard so precious little about.

From where they stood in the middle of the festively green park, there was a scarcity of hiding places, but he couldn't very well hand the girl back over to her captor. So he did the only thing he could think of: he turned around, looked Rapunzel dead in the eye, mouthed "I'm sorry," and picked her up, walking behind a fence and sitting down, still holding her. He realized what he was doing and let go of her, even if she was warm and pleasantly squishy. Unlike the rigid corpses he was used to. She held the pointed tops of the fence and drew herself up to peer over the top, then as quickly slunk down and hid.

"What is she doing here?" she said to herself. "Is she looking for me? She can't have noticed that I'm gone yet, not yet…"

The woman looked their way.

Graverobber clapped a hand over the girl's mouth and felt her continued mumblings in the form of hot breaths and quick motions. Her tongue flickered over his palm like a beating wing. He closed his eyes and attempted not to connect the sensations with his sick thoughts, in particular the thoughts of her mouth elsewhere. Lord, he was weak for this girl. He sternly reminded himself that this was no time for sexual shenanigans; she was at the mercy of the world, inexperienced in every conceivable way, and needed his help badly.

He would be only too happy to assist, even though there was nothing he could ask for in return. She had no money, nothing to give.

The woman sniffed, said something about how she must be hearing things, and sauntered on her merry way.

They both let out a breath. He dropped his hand, wiping it on his jeans.

"That was a close one," she said, and threw her arms around his neck.

* * *

><p>As Gothel strolled the emptying streets (they emptied as the area darkened), she contemplated whether she'd done the right thing in leaving Nathan to be consumed by his overwhelming grief; a thought she hurriedly dismissed. What a strange and silly and, well, intriguing man he was proving to be. His emotions were right on his flowery sleeves no matter how hard he tried to hide it, for good and for ill. It had taken her no time at all to unmask him, but once their acquaintanceship had been severed and her daughter's health secured, there had been no reason for her to stalk him. He had seen fit to keep his distance and nurse his daughter in sullen separation from the world. That much she knew. And if it at all hurt her pride that he had not even once gone after her and simply let her slip through his fingers, she would certainly never admit it.<p>

Unbeknownst to her, some higher power was watching, stalking along the abandoned freeway overpass as she meandered beneath, presumably to seek shelter from the rain that began to fall. No, not any deity that she didn't believe in anyway. This figure was masked and impossible to deny.

The masked man swooped down, leather cloak rushing to brush the wet ground. He towered over her all garbed in black, an imperious figure, a Repo Man, doctor's bag in one hand, the other free to do what it would: grab at her throat and guide her to the wall. Adrenaline pulsed in her veins along with a good dose of manageable fear. After years of evasion, years of hiding and lying, GeneCo and one of its debt doctors had her at last. She made no attempt to resist; if this was her time to die, at least she would die young, before her dear, sweet Flower's gift could wear off. At least, as it was said, she would leave a good-looking corpse.

That is, she thought as much until she met and recognized the eyes. Intense, yes, and on the wrong side of insane… but, when she searched them, she recognized his beautiful weakness. It was, in fact, exquisite, and her salvation.

"Hello, Nathan," she murmured.

His intention had only been to find her. She understood that now. But had he meant to go so far as to physically press and threaten her life? No, that could only be his training taking over, and the mode switched off, and he stood there limp and safe.

Eleanor reached up and around, unclasping the mad doctor's helmet, and lifted it up, tossing it aside with a clunk.

"I'm so sorry, I should never have," he began to apologize.

"Shh," she said, placing a finger to his lips.

And so it was that Repo Man observed them from where the helmet had fallen on the ground as she wound herself closer and kissed him, safe from the rain, safe from the knife, safe in his arms. No almosts or might-have-beens truly mattered. All that did was that they were in this pursuit together.

* * *

><p>Shilo sat in a chair by the window, gazing gloomily out at the rain while Flynn watched the television for news of – what else?—himself and counted out the remainder of his money. The girl turned around, curious.<p>

"Why'd you do it?" she asked.

"Do what?" he said.

"Keep my bug. That'd have paid off your debts, wouldn't it?"

"Don't tempt me, doll. I could still go back and get my money back." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I wouldn't. You got me. What is wrong with me? It would have been so easy. It's right in my pack, I could've… I fully intended to!"

"You're a softie, you terrible man you," she said, getting up from her chair.

He smiled at her faintly, a smile that dropped off when she approached. Something came over her and she didn't know what, but something new. She bent and pecked his cheek. He stared at her in bewilderment and raised a hand to his cheek as if she'd slapped him. Shilo felt herself glow warm inside.

"What was that?"

"Don't get any smart ideas," she started, but suddenly she began to feel a little green.

Her stomach writhed and coiled like a serpent. It compelled her to dash, push open the bathroom door, drop to her knees, and vomit her little heart out. After a minute of being mercifully left alone, the noises and splatters stopped, and Flynn stepped in to check on her, though he looked uneasy and as embarrassed as she felt.

"You okay?"

"I'm… I'm sick," she said pathetically, using toilet tissue to wipe vomit off her face. It was bad enough when her own father saw her this way, let alone a near stranger. "I… have a blood disease."

"Oh. Oh no. Your medicine?"

She nodded. "It's all back at the house. I hadn't thought about it, but I need it or I'll keep having episodes: not being able to breathe, or seizures, or getting sick like this."

"Here, let me help you." For she trembled as she stood. "It'll be okay. I'll figure something out."

"You don't have to," she wheezed, her throat hoarse from retching. In spite of her protestations, he insisted on assisting her to the bed. "But I thought it was yours."

"Hey, you're sick. It's okay." He pulled off her shoes even though, really, she could do it herself, she wasn't exactly incapacitated. But then a bout of coughing took her and he used the lull in her talking to slip her under the covers. She snuggled down. "If you touch something wet, don't look at what it is." He turned the TV off and went to the radiator. "Mind if I turn this on?"

She shook her head. He fiddled with the device and hot air slowly sighed into the room, creating a coziness that stood up well against the rain.

"Hey, it's Flynn, isn't it?" she hesitantly piped up. He spun about.

"Yeah, that's right."

"You can sit on the bed with me, if you like."

Awe in his face and reluctance in his steps. It was as if he didn't trust himself. More likely he didn't trust her, after the stunt she pulled kissing him. What had gotten into her? That had been immature and irresponsible, and it would be best to just forget it.

"Thanks."

He added his weight to the cheap mattress. It creaked.

"About that kiss earlier…"

"I'd really rather not talk about it," she cut him off.

"Understood. So tell me something, 'Lo…"

"Anything."

"What happens, say, if we don't get your medicine?" he asked seriously.

"I die."

"Oh."

There wasn't much to say after that; he turned the TV back on and he sat at the foot of the bed. She asked for the remote. He passed it to her. She put on Blind Mag's performance and then the weather channel, when the hour grew later. Shilo explained to him that it helped her sleep. Somehow or other, he ended up lying down, without really intending to, she knew, and she put her hand on his hair, playing with it while she watched TV.

Outside, the rain fell and fell.


End file.
